


Just A Scratch

by Archet



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Boromir Lives, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:33:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24866113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archet/pseuds/Archet
Summary: Summary: It’s just a scratch, or so Boromir says.
Relationships: Aragorn/Boromir
Comments: 8
Kudos: 84





	Just A Scratch

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: these characters are not mine, I did not create them I only made this ficlet.  
> Feedback: is welcomed and appreciated

Aragorn rushed through the doorway, pushing aside those blocking his path. “Where is he? What has happened?”

At the command and the urgency in the king’s tone, the robed men standing just inside the chamber door quickly stepped aside. They had been called to the practice field, and finding no one there, had ventured inside one of the cooling rooms where men weary and hot from sword training took their ease. The windows were tall and wide here, allowing for every available breeze, and now they were flung open to the bright but diminishing afternoon.

Sunlight streamed into the chamber, and Boromir, having been seated before the window, complained as an old healer with gnarled but steady hands held up a fine silver needle to the light and concentrated on threading the tiny loop in its end. “Tis nothing but a scratch, I tell you.”

Aragorn, having made his way well into the room, took in the appearance of his steward. Boromir’s hair, mussed and dark with sweat, yet still shone fair in the sunlight. His face was flushed, wet with sweat as well, and his green eyes were narrowed with annoyance. His tunic had been unlaced and pushed open somewhat, allowing the slight coolness entering in through the open window against his skin. Getting his eyes upon his lover went far in calming Aragorn. All the young messenger had said was that there had been an accident on the training field, and that the steward had fallen.

Blood, bright red, seeped from the gash on Boromir’s brow. Crimson trails dotted the front of his fine tunic, marking that the wound was a bit more advanced than a mere scratch, though Aragorn’s anxious gaze noted that the bleeding seemed to have nearly ceased. Still, an icy coldness had invaded Aragorn. It was not the first time he had seen Boromir’s noble blood spilled, nor did he think it would be the last, and this was hardly and moral cut, though still, memories rose up and touched his heart, and he felt again the desperate fear of that day, now years passed, where nearly all had been lost.

So much had been set in motion on that fateful day. Choices made and remade. Some that had seemed eternal where altered. Yet, they had survived, though each carried an indelible mark from their journeys. Bonds forged were tested, and Aragorn had for a time bent all his will into healing Boromir, both his wounds of body and of heart. The wounds had closed now, healed as well as they could. Aragorn could see the remnant of one now, the visible one, on Boromir’s chest just the past the border of the tunic, the edge of a raised scar.

“Surely, nothing but a scratch, indeed.” Aragorn stated flatly, staring at the mark.

The old healer paused long enough to offer his king a bow, then went back to threading his needle. Boromir, seeing Aragorn, had the good grace to offer a subdued look, if only for a moment. “My lord,” he said, then smiled.

A shiver raked down Aragorn’s spine for the smile and the blood both suited Boromir, somehow. These were times of peace, yet his steward would ever be a warrior, and though not a young man, at least as most men counted time, Boromir was yet still strong and hale, and now appeared more annoyed than hurt.

Aragorn shook his head and moved to Boromir’s side, watching quietly and closely as the healer set about sewing closed the wound. In truth it was not deep, despite the blood, and took a scant few moments before the thread was knotted and snipped off, close the skin. Aragorn waited until the healer had finished, then with a word of sincere thanks gestured the old man from the room. He went, leaving a basin of water and clean cloths.

When Boromir would have reached for the cloth, Aragorn’s hand stopped him. Aragorn looked into the pale green eyes and found them filled with warmth, with life. “I shall tend to this, since you are so unconcerned.”

A smile struggled to break across Boromir’s lips, but was reined in at the final moment. He sat back and bowed his head dutifully, and Aragorn went along with the guise that his steward was not terribly amused. Taking a cloth in hand, Aragorn dipped it into the clear water of the basin, and taking Boromir’s chin tilted his head toward the window, getting a fine, close view of the gash and the accompanying stain of a scrape along his cheek. Carefully he dabbed at the blood that was even now beginning to dry, and nothing was said as Aragorn tended to the wounds.

At last laying aside the cloth, the water in the basin having gone pale pink from the washing, Aragorn sat beside Boromir, the back of his fingers gentling along the bearded cheek that would be dark with bruising in an hour or so if nothing was done. “Be still.” Aragorn commanded, and lay his palm against the scrape. Through the gentle contact Aragorn felt the angry warmth in Boromir’s skin, and breathing deeply he it willed away. His careful fingers traced the gash and after a few moments he pulled back.

Boromir’s eyes had closed, and he sat very still. “Open your eyes and look at me.” The green eyes smiled, and Aragorn felt the old memories drop away, like stones in a river. All was well.

Boromir offered, “Nothing but a foolish accident. A moment’s inattention, just another mark that I’m getting slow in my encroaching old age.”

It was a well worn jest between them. In truth, Aragorn saw old age as being far off in his lover, though they teased one another about it often enough. After all, Aragorn’s years far outnumbered Boromir’s, and his lover took delight in reminding them both of that fact.

“One is only as old as he feels, my love . . .” Aragorn replied, his fingers slipping under Boromir’s chin, thumb brushing over the warm, surprisingly soft mouth. “I dare venture, you feel quite hale, indeed.”

Boromir chuckled, and Aragorn leaned in and kissed the emerging grin from his lips. His hand held Boromir’s chin and he sought a deeper contact, his tongue sliding inside the familiar, treasured heat of Boromir’s mouth. Boromir responded, leaning against him and sliding his arms about Aragorn’s waist. Aragorn growled and deepened the kiss, delving deep, and it was long moments before he could bear to draw away. When he did he was slightly breathless, and releasing Boromir’s chin, he licked the taste of his lover from his lips and ran his fingers lightly over the wounds.

“Has the ache gone?”

Boromir smiled even as he leaned into Aragorn’s touch. He had not made mention of the ache or the sting, yet Aragorn had known, and had taken most of it away. “Mostly, yes, thank you, my love. You did not need to-

“Thick-headed creature.” Aragorn interrupted, shaking his head. He slipped his arms about Boromir, drawing him close, and for a time they sat in the sunlight by the window in silence.

It was still a bright, sunny day, and the day’s work for them both was done for the moment. The afternoon was deepening, and soon enough the brilliant sunlight would dim, and they would take to bed early tonight, Aragorn thought. Already the image of Boromir’s strong, fair body, laid out on their wide bed stirred the hunger in Aragorn. The hunger that lay so close to the surface, in regards to his steward.

“Mmm, perhaps, you feel the need to lie down?” Aragorn ventured. Boromir shifted in his arms, looked into his eyes about to protest, then, realized the true bent of Aragorn’s words. “Ah, yes. I do feel a bit weary.”

Boromir rose, his eyes warm. “I shall go now, I think.”

Aragorn nodded, his own gaze hungry. “I think that would be best.”

Standing, their fingers laced, Aragorn’s gaze caught on the basin filled with pink water, but Boromir pulled him away to the doorway. “Tis just a scratch,” he said softly.

Aragorn smiled, and looking upon the beloved face, said, “Perhaps, but your scratches worry me more than any other’s.”

Boromir smiled, pressed close. “Then come, let me prove that I am well and sound.”

The heat in the green eyes, in the strong body enveloped Aragorn, and he brushed the hair back from Boromir’s face, fingers tangling in the soft strands and drawing his lover closer . . . and closer. He pressed Boromir against the wall and grinned a wolf’s grin.

“Ah, but I would have this proof now, my love. Will you do this for me now, to ease my old man’s worry?”

Boromir laughed. “Anything for you, you know this.” Aragorn’s hands set to work, pulling at Boromir’s knotted belt as Boromir added, “Perhaps, we should go slowly . . . a man of your age should be wary-”

Aragorn silenced his lover with a hard kiss. “I will show you what a man of my age is capable of,” he growled with a heated grin.

Boromir grinned back. “Then let us discard all caution.”

And so they did.


End file.
